


Crossing Lines

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: First Time, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-18 07:46:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles isn't sure of the exact moment he fell in love with Scott-- but he is and it's getting harder and harder to keep it a secret. And the only thing standing between Stiles telling him is Allison, his nerves, and the fact that he could lose his best friend forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crossing Lines

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, wow, first of all this is my first full length fic in a while so I'm nervous as hell. And secondly, this is my first Scott/Stiles fic, too. So a bunch of firsts. 
> 
> This is dedicated to Bronte who asked for this fic back in like February and is just getting it now in July. Thanks for not killing me for making you wait so long, babe ♥

The first time Stiles and Scott kiss, they were twelve and it’s almost innocent.

Stiles can remember it clearer than anything, really. He remembers the blue curtains Scott used to have in his room, he remembers the door being closed, and the “We should just kiss each other, dude, honestly.”

And maybe Stiles should’ve thought more about it then, but maybe that was a sign. It _was_ his idea, and he _did_ lean in first, and he _did_ thumb over the hem at the bottom of Scott’s shirt. But it wasn’t anything like that; at least not then. Then, it was just their only way out of not being the only two guys to not have kissed anyone in the sixth grade. Then, it was just getting their first kiss out of the way with someone they trust. Then, it was honest and pure.

That’s what Stiles tells himself, that is. It didn’t mean anything.

Stiles can remember how fast his heart was beating – way faster than it should’ve been; so fast Stiles thought it’d burst right out of his chest and run away. Stiles can remember how nervous he was – more nervous than he should’ve been; or maybe not nervous enough, because now that he looks back on it, it was more of an anticipation feeling than nervousness. Like the feeling when you finally get the food you’ve been craving for a week. Stiles can remember how much he wanted to kiss Scott – wanted it more than he should have. Wanted it more than he had the right to. Wanted it more than anything, really. And maybe then he should’ve noticed that what he was feeling for Scott was more than best friend-like, but he didn’t. Or maybe he did, who knows?

He watched Scott’s eyes, as bright as always, glowing with embarrassment and anxiousness. Scott gripped his bed sheet with stiff, nervous fingers and his foot kept tapping on the light brown carpet. They smiled at each other and it was awkward and unsure, and both would let out a laugh that was a little forced. They held eye contact for a second, like trying to read each other’s mind, and then let their eyes zigzag toward the floor. Then their eyes would make contact again and they’d both freeze – almost daring the other to make a move, to lean closer, to do _anything_.

_Do it_ , their eyes said, _because I don’t know if I can_.

Scott looked away and then back at him and asked with a crooked smile, “Are we really gonna _do_ this, Stiles? Oh my god.” He slid his hand up and down his leg nervously and his smile kept fading then reappearing every few seconds, like he couldn’t pick which emotion he should feel.

And even though Stiles answered with, “We don’t have to,” he moved closer anyway. He tried not to make it an obnoxious movement, but it wrinkled the sheets and pulled them toward the floor. Stiles tried to laugh off his disheveled and unsubtle movement, but he was too focused on Scott’s mouth, and the upbeat rhythm of his breathing, and the way his fingers kept digging into the bed sheet.

He leaned his whole body toward Scott and waited for a reaction.

Scott didn’t retract or move away; so taking that as a green light, Stiles leaned in a little more. And he kept leaning in until he felt Scott’s breath against his lips and the heat from his body. His eyes slid up Scott’s face and onto his deep brown eyes. They looked timid and hesitant, but he kept still as Stiles took away the only centimeter of space they had left between their lips.

The kiss was weak and clumsy, then forceful and rushed. Stiles held his breath and Scott pushed back so hard it almost hurt. It lasted maybe six seconds and in that time Stiles noticed Scott’s shoulders had loosened and his fingers had let go of the death grip he’d had on the bed sheet. Stiles reached out and grabbed the bottom of Scott’s shirt, but he can’t explain why he did that. He let his fingers trace the sewing hem of Scott’s deep red t-shirt; then bent his fingers inward and pulled Scott a little closer. But a second later Scott broke the kiss and shot back sharply; he threw himself face-first onto his pillow. He was laughing almost hysterically and Stiles turned red. And when Scott looked up at Stiles he said a little too loudly, “I just _kissed_ you, dude,” and started laughing again.

A thin, broken smile cracked its way across Stiles mouth and he let out a sound that was more distressful than it was humorous. Stiles wanted to laugh too, but there was an ache in his heart and tightness in his stomach that kept him from doing so. He knew Scott was laughing because to him it was silly, and crazy, and something he never thought would happen.

But all Stiles could think was how much he wanted to do it again (and again and _again_ ).

______________________________

 

The kiss was about four years ago, and since then there’s been other girls, puppy-love crushes, Lydia Martin’s, and other people that have come and gone.

There was Jennifer Trainer in the seventh grade. She had light brown hair, even lighter eyes, and a laugh that was contagious. Scott talked about her non-stop for three months. That was the first time Stiles ever felt jealousy toward a girl Scott had a crush on. He hated the way he went on and on about how pretty she was, and how funny she was, and how he wished he had the nerve to ask her out. He would talk about her during lunch, and after school, while they played video games, and while they rode their bikes.

And even then Stiles didn’t know what to call what he felt for Scott. He knew he shouldn’t be jealous and he knew he shouldn’t get that knot in his stomach whenever Scott talked about her, but he did and he couldn’t make it go away. It was a mix of longing and anger because he knew whatever “it” was, that he couldn’t act on it. He couldn’t voice his feelings, or tell Scott to stop talking about her, or make him stop liking her. He knew it’d just ruin things between him and Scott, and he wasn’t prepared to lose him because of something dumb like this – especially if he didn’t even know how to label it.

Then there was Alexia Franklin in freshmen year. She was a junior, and way out of Scott’s league, but he fell hard for her. They only had one class together and that was gym class, and he made the most out of it. Stiles hated watching him silently chase after her, and he hated how she never really noticed him. How couldn’t she? How could anyone not notice how amazing Scott was? Things like that always got to Stiles, because he _knew_ how great Scott was, but it was like no one else did. And he almost wished he could slam their heads against the wall and _make_ them like Scott back because he’d give anything for Scott to feel about him the way he felt about them. They didn’t realize how fucking lucky they were, and maybe that’s what hurt the most.

It was at the end of freshmen year when Stiles finally came to the conclusion that he liked Scott more than a friend should. And in the back of his mind he always knew; of course he did, but he finally began to admit it to himself. But admitting it only made things worse because suddenly he knew why he wanted to die whenever Scott told him about a new crush; suddenly he understood the knot in his stomach and the ache in his heart, and the newly justified jealousness.

Stiles was in love whether he liked it or not; convenient or inconvenient, one sided love or two.

He was in love.

The worst part was Allison.

It wasn’t even that Stiles hated Allison, because he didn’t. Allison was beautiful and smart and confident. She was everything Scott had ever wanted in a friend and a girlfriend. Stiles and Allison got along; and around them he didn’t feel like a third wheel, but like a friend. He was happy for Scott. The best friend in him was elated that Scott finally found someone who seemed to realize how amazing he was. He was happy that Scott had fallen in love – but he hated that it wasn’t with him.

Scott was totally in love with her, and Stiles knew it. Hell, everyone knew it.

He never talked about anyone the way he talked about her, never smiled at anyone the way he smiled at her, and never fell so hard for anyone the way he fell for her. The thing was, with Allison, Stiles hated that he hated her because he knew he shouldn’t. And he didn’t. But he did at the same time. As a best friend, Stiles should be bouncing off the walls _with_ Scott because he knows how much she means to him. Stiles knew she made Scott happy; happier than he’d been in a long time – but that only made Stiles feel empty inside. She liked him back (loved him back), and it was the first time Stiles felt he was being pulled away from Scott. She had a piece of him that he didn’t, and Stiles wasn’t handling that fact very well.

Scott would opt to take Allison out than go to the movies with him, rather go to her house than his, and spend Friday nights with her. He’d save her a seat a lunch, buy her favorite snack at the store, and see the movie she wanted. And on some level he could understand it. Love is blind, right? But shouldn’t your best friend be the exception to that blindness?

And he knows Scott doesn’t mean it, he probably doesn’t even notice it either. Or maybe Stiles was overreacting (as he tended to do), but it doesn’t make any of it hurt any less. It doesn’t make that ache in his heart go away, it doesn’t stop his mind from racing, and it doesn’t stop him from wanting Scott more than he should.

At the end of the day, Stiles could say to himself that Scott was his and mean it in the most solid, truest way. Scott was his best friend, his brother, his everything, really. He and Scott have seen the best and worst of each other. They’ve seen each other at their happiest and at their saddest. They’ve seen laughter, they’ve seen tears, and close to legitimate mental breakdowns from both of them a few times. They’ve been through deaths, and break ups, and parent split-ups, and court dates, and ups and downs; sickness and health, richer and poorer, and everything else you can think of. They’ve basically met all the qualifications to step into a church and say, “I do”.

Scott was there when no one else was, and that’s got to mean something in the long-run, doesn’t it?

And it’s almost sad that Stiles can have all of these things to back his claim up, but what gives him the most satisfaction sometimes is remembering: _I kissed him first_.

______________________________

 

Stiles has always credited himself with being able to read people – and Scott was an open book when it came to Allison, usually. Printed on his face in bold, uppercase lettering was the fact that maybe ( _maybe_ ) their relationship was beginning to get into a bit of a strain. And that scared Scott more than he could even attempt to hide.

Stiles can remember watching them from his locker about a week ago. Scott had approached Allison quietly, then abruptly grabbing her by the waist with a huge smile on his face. Allison, though, didn’t seem to be in the mood. Her face twisted into a displeased expression and she gently pushed Scott’s hands away. She worked fast to change her face before Scott looked at her directly, but Stiles saw it as clear as day.

Allison twisted on her tip toes and pressed her back against her locker. Her head was on a slant and her hand was on her hip as she listened to Scott talk. There was something impatient about her stare that Stiles could tell Scott was catching on to. Still, he had a bright smile on his face which was in perfect contrast to Allison’s placid, plain one. No, she didn’t look annoyed or upset, but she didn’t look happy either.

Soon enough, Scott’s smile dwindled away too and his eyebrows scrunched together. Stiles saw Scott ask Allison what was wrong, but he couldn’t read Allison’s lips well enough to get her answer. She turned back to her locker sharply, grabbed three notebooks and a textbook, and then closed it. When she turned back to Scott the look on his face was concerned and just a bit worried.

Stiles leaned against his locker, tapping his fingers on the cool metal. He had to squint his eyes a little to try and get a better grasp on their body language. Allison had seemed to have loosened up and now Scott had his arm around her. Stiles looked away for a minute, a slight roll of his eye.

Scott said something to her.

She said something back.

Then they both smiled.

Scott leaned in and kissed her on the cheek before she turned her body to walk away. Allison made her way down the hallway without looking back although Scott stood at her locker until she was out of eyesight. Then, he began to make his way toward Stiles’ with a confused expression on his face. He scratched at the back of his head, mumbling something under his breath.

“You okay?” Stiles asked, as he aimlessly grabbed a notebook and tried to make it seem like he hadn’t witnessed their little bump in the road.

Scott nodded quickly and said, “Yeah—yeah, I think so.”

“What happened?”

Scott looks back down the hallway in the direction Allison went. “I don’t know, really,” he admits. “She was acting weird again.”

Stiles looks over his shoulder at him. “Again?” he asks.

Together they walk toward the locker room to get changed for practice. Scott shrugs a little before he says, “It’s probably nothing, but she’s been like…,” he’s quiet for a moment, searching for the right word. “She’s been distant lately. Like – she, -- it’s probably nothing. It’s nothing.”

Raising an eyebrow, Stiles questions, “You sure?”

Quickly, Scott says, “Yeah, yeah. It’s nothing. I’m fine.” Then he adds, “We’re fine.”

Even though Scott would never admit it, things between him and Allison were beginning to change—and it couldn’t be for the better.

______________________________

 

It’s Friday and the lunch room is as loud as ever. The room is filled with incoherent talking in the background of Stiles and Scott’s small conversation. They walk side by side to their table. Scott’s eyes are fixed on something out the window, but he nods periodically to the things Stiles is saying. He watches the gym class yards away spread out into two teams. They’re playing what looks like a sloppy version of kickball, and the gym teacher is wildly throwing his arms every which-way to get the kids into some type of proper formation. Scott smiles at the look of distress on the teacher’s face in comparison to the blank and uninterested look on the kid’s faces that stand loosely on the field.

“--what’re you doing after school?” Stiles asks, breaking Scott’s train of thought. Stiles eyes the molding apple on his tray and makes a face at it. He picks it up anyway, rolls it over in his hands in brings it up to his nose to smell.

Scott looks over at him. “I –,” he stops short and says, “Don’t eat that, dude, that’s gross. And I work tonight till eight, I think. Maybe later, actually, I think Deaton said something about cleaning the cages.”

“What about tomorrow?”

They sit down side by side and Stiles is sure only he notices how their arms slide against each other as they lower into their seats. Scott picks up his pizza, takes a bite and answers, “I don’t know, nothing, probably. Why?” with his mouth still full.

Stiles shrugs. “Why don’t you come over this weekend, then? I mean, when’s the last time you spent the night? You’ve been so busy with work and lacrosse and… Allison.” Stiles tries hard not to put a gap between his words, and wonders if Scott notices how his voice tightens when he gets to the end of his sentence. He counts to three in his head and then continues. “It’ll be like the old times.”

Scott laughs. “The old times,” he says in a mimicking voice. “Stiles you say that like we’re both thirty and haven’t seen each other in ten years.”

_That’s what it feels like_ , Stiles wants to say, but he doesn’t. Instead he answers with, “Dude you know what I mean. Movie night. Twelve hours of nothing but corny, badly directed, totally not scary horror films.” He slaps Scott’s shoulder. “C’mon. Domino’s pizza, iced tea, those gross sour/sweet things you like – all of it!”

Scott smiles and it’s crooked and heartfelt. He begins to nod before he can answer with, “I’ll be there!” loudly and raising his hand to slap Stiles’.

A familiar voice asks, “You’ll be where?” just as a tray held by skinny fingers and painted nails sets it down on the table. Long, brown, curly hair comes into vision for Stiles first as he watches the voice personify and take a seat next to Scott. The question is still fresh on her smiling lips as she pushes her hair behind her ear, and raises her eyebrows in acknowledgement to Stiles. She kisses Scott on the cheek robotically, says something in his ear that makes his smile widen, and then looks back at Stiles. He tries hard not to roll his eyes.

Allison.

“Oh, we were just planning a movie night for tomorrow,” Scott tells her. He takes another bite of his pizza and chews it slowly. Stiles lets his eyes drop to his tray, he twirls his plastic fork in the intertwining noodles on his tray, wraps them around the fork, and lifts it into his mouth.

“Tomorrow?” she asks, her eyelids drop a little and she bites the inside of her lower lip. “I was gonna ask if you wanted to go see a movie tomorrow or something. I was thinking maybe we could talk?”

Scott looks over his shoulder at Stiles and then back at Allison. Stiles watches his shoulders rise and fall a little before he says, “I promised Stiles already, I’m sorry. Why don’t we go next weekend?”

She’s quiet for a moment or two and although her smile fades, she keeps her voice light and breezy. “Okay, sure,” she answers with as she picks up her banana and begins to peel it.

Stiles has to hide his smile behind his molding apple, he feels like he’s won some type of unspoken competition.

Stiles, one. Allison, zero.

______________________________

 

Scott gets to Stiles’ house at four o’clock in the afternoon on Saturday. He was supposed to be there at ten in the morning. Six hours late, but Stiles isn’t counting. Not really.

His hair is messy and he’s still in sweat pants and Stiles can tell he just woke up not too long ago. He drops his bike on Stiles’ front steps and mumbles something that sounds like a ‘hey’, but Stiles isn’t sure. Scott rubs his eyes as he walks right passed Stiles and down the entrance hallway. He throws his arm out against the wall to help keep his balance as he makes a b-line toward the couch.

“Where the hell were you?” Stiles asks with fake anger. His voice imitates one of an enraged wife who’d follow the question with something like, “I’ve been slaving over a hot stove _all day_!” He places his hands on his hips dramatically and narrows his eyes at Scott as he walks zombie-like further into his house. When his shins hit the bottom of the couch, he allows his weight to let him fall forward. Instantly he closes his eyes and lets out a heavy breath.

When he sees that Scott isn’t interested in his acting skills he drops his hands from his hips and says normally, “Really, what happened?”

“Do you know how late I worked till last night?” Scott whines into the pillow. He lifts his head toward the ceiling and yells, “Two o’clock!”, and then throws his head back down. A second later, he adds, “ _In the morning_ ,” for more emphasis.

Stiles smiles at him and shakes his head. He watches Scott embrace the throw-pillow and curl up into himself, letting out an exaggerated whimper in response to his tiredness. He closes his eyes and sighs.

“I’m dead, dude,” Scott says into the pillow slowly.

Stiles walks over and begins to shake Scott’s shoulders. “There’s no time for dying, we have horrible movies to watch.”

Scott doesn’t move; instead, he allows himself to be rocked almost violently by Stiles’ hands. His head slides loosely against the soft pillow and his hair bounces against his forehead. He looks like he’s falling asleep, unclenching his hand and letting out a deep breath. Stiles stops shaking him but his hands stay on Scott’s shoulders.

But suddenly, before Stiles has a chance to back away or brace himself, Scott jumps up, turns him, and throws him back onto the couch cushion beside him. He has Stiles by the wrists and pins them above his head. Stiles squirms under him, bucks and twists, and does all he can at that moment to flip them over. Scott looks amused, laughing lightly and pushing his weight against Stiles to keep him still.

It’s innocent and playful-- they look like two eight year olds again, wrestling each other and yelling in each other’s face; but all Stiles can only think of is how close Scott is, and how soft his hands are. Scott drops his head onto Stiles’ shoulder so hard it stings a little, then tightens his grip around Stiles’ wrists and laughs in his ear, “Say you give up, say you give up!”, but Stiles stays silent. He isn’t sure, however, if his loss for words is because he _actually_ refuses to give up or because Scott is face to face with him now; close enough for the short hairs at the front of Scott’s hair to brush his forehead, and close enough for Stiles to feel the heat from Scott’s words against his mouth. And Stiles thinks about if he just lifts his head up an inch, their lips would brush. He watches Scott’s mouth wrap around the words he’s yelling at him, and focuses on the way Scott’s fingers keep clenching and unclenching.

Scott throws his leg over Stiles and straddles himself over his midsection, caging Stiles in with his legs. Stiles almost hates himself for thinking about how much this looks like Scott’s riding him – then hates himself a little more for wishing (even just for a second) that Scott _was_ riding him instead. Scott laughs again and sits back on Stiles’ lower abs, allowing all his weight on his friend’s stomach, hoping it’d result in Stiles giving up. Stiles is frozen though, watching Scott breathe in deeply. He watches his chest expand and contract every few seconds and takes notice of the wild, extravagant smile that keeps reappearing on Scott’s face. He looks fully awake now, his eyes almost as bright aS his teeth.

Scott’s eyes are glowing with playful excitement; his hair is a perfected mess and has no right to look that good on him. But then again Stiles has no right to notice how hot Scott looks with his hair in disarray and his breathing upbeat and his mouth hung open a little, wet and shiny. He has no right to want to kiss that mouth and mess up that hair more and make his breathing even faster. He has no right to want to throw Scott on to his back and slide up his body, feeling every muscle, every inch of skin, every dip and drop of his body, every smooth surface and every rough patch. He has no right to want to kiss every inch of skin he has, and slides his tongue down Scott’s entire body, and make his back arch, moaning his name and begging for more--

_He has no right whatsoever_.

Stiles bucks at the same time Scott rocks, and he slides lower causing his ass to brush Stiles’ cock for no more than a second. Scott doesn’t notice it, Stiles is sure, because he readjusts his grip on Stiles’ wrists, laughs and continues on; but Stiles mouth drops open and he scrambles backward, tossing Scott sideways. Scott has to throw his hands out toward the wall to stop his head from hitting it.

“ _Dude_ ,” Scott says with his eyes wide and confused at Stiles’ sudden change in mood and actions. “What the hell?”

Stiles sits up and tries really hard to laugh off how awkward this whole moment is. “I give up, you won,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders, and tries to make it sound plain and calm. He frees his legs completely from under Scott and stands. “I’ll be back,” he mumbles before heading toward the bathroom.

He can feel Scott’s eyes burning two holes in his back, watching sharply until he turns the corner. As soon as Stiles is out of eyesight he slaps his forehead, cursing at himself and sort of wishing he were dead.

 

By six o’clock they’re back on the couch and in the middle of some two-out-of-five star movie called Fright Night. The main character, Jamie, is currently running for her life through the woods. Typical, right? She’s in high heels, of course, and she and her friends have no business being in the cabin they’re residing in. And she falls just as the killer gets into arm’s length. Of course. She screams her head off, sprawling backwards, with mascara running down her cheeks and her pretty, manicured nails being destroyed as she digs them into the dirt. It starts to rain then, right on bad-horror-movie cue, and by miracle little Jamie is able to get to her feet and make a run for it and the killer misses snatching her by a second. Her blonde hair is swinging every which-way as she cries, runs, and panics her way back in the direction she came, calling for her boyfriend Ryan.

“If I had a dollar for every cliché in this movie…,” Stiles says dryly. He rests his elbow on the arm of the couch and leans his head against his hand.

Scott mumbles, “We’d be rich.”

There’s a loud boom and Jamie falls to the floor out of fear. Faintly, there are two sets of footsteps that can magically be heard through the heavy rain. The first set of footsteps is frantic and upbeat, like running. Then second one is slow and rhythmic, in no rush whatsoever. There’s a scream, a bang, a boom, and then the sounds of bones breaking one by one. She starts crying harder, then. Her eyes scan the dark woods and with her whole body shaking she starts to yell.

“Ryan!” she screams. “ _Ryyyyaaannnn_!”

In the background the killer is approaching, but Jamie doesn’t see him. Then he lifts his axe, Jamie screams, and the screen goes black. A moment later the credits begin to roll.

“That’s it?!” Scott yells, loud and obnoxious. It makes Stiles smile.

Stiles laughs half-heartedly. He pushes the covers aside and stands up to get another horribly written and directed movie. “We really should’ve seen that coming, honestly. Did we really expect it to end properly when it sucked since minute one?”

Scott shrugs in agreement, grabs another pillow, and falls to the side where Stiles was sitting a minute ago.

Stiles fumbles through the movies, picks one at random, pops it into the DVD player and heads back to the couch. He notices Scott’s head on his seat and says, “Move your head or I’ll sit on it,” warningly with a weak smile across his lips.

With one hand Scott lifts himself up without argument, and once Stiles is seated he replaces his head downward and onto Stiles’ lap. Scott folds one arm across Stiles’ thighs and then rests his head on top of his arm. With his fingers his taps a non-rhythmic beat onto Stiles’ knee as the movie begins. Stiles’ muscles tighten and he screams at himself to relax. Scott does things like this all the time, he tells himself. He has no reason to feel like this.

But that was the problem: Scott does things like this _all the time_.

And he knows Scott doesn’t mean it – not in the way Stiles would like him to. He’s always been this way, and Stiles didn’t expect that to change just because _he_ developed feelings. Scott was always touchy, especially when it came to Stiles, and it made him want to scratch his eyes out, or rip his heart out, or both. When they hugged he always pulled Stiles in close, when they walked their hands always brushed a few times, they always talked close to each other, and slept on each other, and other normal best friend things. They weren’t afraid to sleep in the same bed together, or drink from the same water bottle, or share anything really.

And Stiles tells himself that it doesn’t mean anything – that it’s just Scott being Scott. He tells himself that it can never be anything more because Scott doesn’t feel the way he feels. But every once in a while, a little glimmer of hope (or annoyance) lets Stiles’ mind flash back to the kiss and something inside of him says that maybe it _can_ be more if he just tries.

Stiles didn’t know if that makes him love or hate Scott more.

(Love. It’s always love.)

 

By eight o’clock Scott is still sprawled across Stiles’ lap, breathing in and out slowly, and watching the movie quietly. His eyes are getting heavier, and nothing that’s being said on the television is making any sense to him anymore. He’s so tired that it’s just a blur on the screen and blended sounds that no longer mean anything to him. He blinks a few times in a poor attempt to wake himself but Stiles’ hand has somehow ended up in the back of Scott’s hair, twisting his fingers in the strands, and it’s making him sleepier. Scott doesn’t say anything when he feels Stiles’ hand fall into his hair, he likes it, actually. He closes his eyes and lets Stiles’ fingers soothe him. He relaxes more, lets out a deep breath, and begins to fall asleep.

 

By one o’clock in the morning they’ve both had all they can take of bad horror films. Scott would wake up periodically and look around; then he’d let his eyes fall back onto the television and try to piece together what was happening on the screen. But his mind was too tired to function, and his eyes were too heavy to stay open and he’d fall back asleep on Stiles’ lap.

Stiles half-sat/half-slept through another movie before he literally couldn’t sit up anymore. By the end of it he nudged Scott awake, pushing behind his shoulders to lift him up. “C’mon dude lets go to bed,” he whispered to Scott, watching him roll over with a whine. He mumbles stubbornly something about being too tired to get up but Stiles pushes him again with a little more force.

Stiles throws the blanket over this shoulder, presses the television off, and leads the way to his bedroom. They both walk with their eyes half-closed, feeling the wall to make their way to Stiles’ room. Neither of him have the strength of fully open their eyes to properly navigate themselves, but they make it safely.

They both fall into Stiles’ bed, but Stiles sits back up almost instantly, groaning when he remembers he didn’t turn the light off; Scott already pulling up the covers and turning his back toward Stiles. He mumbles an almost incoherent, “Goodnight,” just as Stiles reaches up and turns out the light.

Stiles slides into bed next to Scott, fishes for his share of the covers, and rests his head on the pillow. He’s chest to back with Scott, staring at the back of his head. The room is completely silent, with nothing to be heard but the slow, rhythmic breathing of Scott. He’s already fast asleep. Stiles mouth turns upward on the corners at how quickly Scott has fallen sleep, and for a second thinks about doing something messed up like pushing him off the bed, or snatching the sheets from him, just to mess with him. But he knows how tired Scott really is and rethinks his sabotage.

A minute later and Stiles’ eyes are tracing the arch of Scott’s shoulder, and sliding his eyes down toward his back. He wants to reach out and throw an arm around Scott, he wants to pull him closer, and breathe him in, and drown in everything that he is. But he can’t. Or maybe he can. But he’s too scared to try. So he doesn’t. Instead, he rolls his eyes at himself, turns over so that he and Scott are now back to back, and closes his eyes.

“You’re pathetic,” Stiles mumbles to himself, squeezing his pillow tightly and mentally throwing himself out of his bedroom window.

______________________________

 

Like some maliciously ironic joke, Stiles and Scott always end up intertwined with each other whenever they sleep in the same bed. Unconsciously or consciously, maybe, they always roll and meet toward the middle of the bed. Countless times they’ve awoken with legs over one another, heads on shoulders or chests, arms over midsections, and things like that.

This morning was no exception.

Stiles wakes up with Scott’s head just under his chin and his hair tickling his nose. Stiles is on his left side with his arm slung almost lifelessly over Scott’s shoulder. Scott is curled inward into himself, using the nape of Stiles neck as a pillow. Stiles can feel short, warm breaths on his collarbone as Scott keeps a sluggish and relaxed tempo of breath in his sleep. Slowly, Stiles’ eyes slide around the room. He traces the line where his wall and ceiling meet all the way to just above his oak door. Then his eyes fall toward the right and he sees the sun trying to break its way into his room. Like a stray cat, the light lurks at his window, trying to make its way inside. Through the curtains, it peeks through the small openings and draws deep yellow lines onto the floor.

Scott presses his head into Stiles shoulder, breathing out heavily; but a second later he’s relaxed again and fully asleep. Stiles wants to laugh though, because this, as a whole, has to be the worst joke ever by the universe. How is it fair in _any way_ for him to not only feel about Scott the way he does, but then wake up with Scott _this_ close to him, with _his_ head on his shoulder and _his_ hand half-curled around a handful of Stiles’ shirt? Scott makes a sound that sounds like a yawn and a groan at the same time and rolls onto his back, trapping Stiles’ arm under his weight. But before Stiles has a chance to complain or try to reclaim his arm, Scott rolls over again. He’s on his side now, eyes still closed, body still relaxed, still asleep.

Now he and Scott are chest to back again, but Scott is much closer than he was last night before they went to sleep. Stiles stares at the back of Scott’s head and wonders how long he can keep this act up before he just _explodes_. He lets his eyes float over Scott’s contour slowly, taking him all in. His jaw tightens and he swallows roughly before throwing the covers off of himself and sits up on the side of the bed. Leaning over, Stiles lets his elbows prop himself up as he presses his face into his hands. Behind him, he hears Scott getting up and a second later he feels a hand on his back.

“You alright?” Scott asks. His voice is deep and scratchy and he’s still half-asleep. Stiles can still hear the tiredness in his voice.

Stiles nods without looking back. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he answers dryly just under his breath before getting up and heading for the door. He runs his hand through his short-cut hair and says, “I’ll go make breakfast.”

______________________________

 

The following week was rough. If Stiles didn’t say he immediately noticed something different between Scott and Allison, he’d be lying. Scott still walked her to class, she still sat with them at lunch, and she still came to the lacrosse games… but something was off. Something about their demeanor with each other was changed, like a hostile undertone. Something had happened, Stiles concluded. He just didn’t know what.

It was something in the way their eyes lingered on each other uncertainly, like they were trying to figure each other out. It was the way Allison lagged a few steps behind when they walked together. Stiles could easily remember a time – just a few days ago—where she did all she could to keep he pace up to walk right next to him. It was how Scott didn’t make little stops to her locker anymore in between classes, and their “I’ll see you later’s” were code for “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, maybe”. Their conversations seemed strained during lunch time, and it looked like they didn’t put in the extra effort to even try to speak to each other much – or at least Allison didn’t.

Maybe Stiles was biased, but it seemed like Scott was still making an effort to keep things between them normal. Maybe Allison tried, too, but Stiles didn’t see that happen. What he saw was Scott zoning out in classes thinking about what was going wrong and how he could fix it. What he saw was Scott doing poorly in lacrosse, coming late to practice, and forgetting his gear. What he saw was Scott’s grades beginning to slip again, and his smiles becoming less and less often, and his words coming more and more scarcely.

What hurt the most, though, was whenever Stiles would ask Scott if he was okay, he’d always answer with, “We’re fine.”

______________________________

 

They weren’t fine.

They weren’t at all, actually.

Scott knocks on Stiles’ door at exactly 10:04 pm on a Saturday night with a case of beer, with two already missing, and a long face. Stiles can tell just by his body language and the look in his eye that something bad had happened. Even with just the assist from the moon and streetlights outside Stiles could see the redness in Scott’s eyes. He’d been crying—and drinking. The smell of beer and something stronger like Whiskey was on his breath. Stiles takes him by the shoulder and leads him inside. Behind him, Stiles closes the front door, locks it, and walks behind Scott toward his bedroom.

The lights are off in Stiles’ room. The blinds are drawn, the curtains are closed, but the television is on to give them light. Scott walks heavily to Stiles’ bed, pushes himself back until his back is against the wall, and takes a beer out of the case. His facial expression is vacant and plain but his eyes are alive and battling for which emotion to display first. He looks sad, then angry, then confused, then lost.

Stiles is standing in the middle of the room when Scott says it: “We broke up.”

It feels like there’s a shift in the air. Stiles freezes for a moment then says, “W—what?”

After a long gulp of beer Scott answers, “She broke up with me, man.” He takes two more gulps then runs the back of his hand across his mouth sloppily.

Stiles sits on the bed next to Scott and takes a beer. Honestly, he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t really know how to feel, either. Something inside him is happy about this and he hates himself for it because he knows he shouldn’t be. But a bigger part of him is sad for Scott, and that’s the side he holds on to.

“Why?” Stiles asks. He opens his beer and takes a drink. The moisture on the bottle runs down his hands and he rubs it on his sweatpants instead.

Scott smiles like he’s about to tell a funny story, but his voice comes out hostile and almost mocking. “She says we need to ‘ _take a break_ ’. She says we need some time apart.” Again, he takes a drink; this time it’s angrier and by the time he pulls the bottle away from his lips, it’s empty. He looks at it for a moment, and then puts it down on Stiles’ night stand. He wastes no time getting another one.

“She called me at like seven and we didn’t get off the phone till like nine-thirty,” Scott begins. Stiles can hear the hurt intertwined with his best friend’s words and that causes a line-like ache to shoot through his chest. “I could tell by the tone of her voice that something was wrong. She said that things between us feel different and she wants to end it now so that we can still be friends. She called it a “break”, not a break _up_ but I just – I don’t know—.”

He takes another gulp and then mumbles, “ _Friends_.”

And then he takes another drink.

“I just don’t get it, Stiles!” Scott looks directly into Stiles’ eyes like somewhere deep inside them hid the answers. “We were _fine_ three weeks ago. And somewhere between then and now everything got—,” he searched for the right way to put it. “… fucked up.”

The room is quiet then. Even though the television is on, the volume is so low that you’d have to strain to hear it. The closed window blocks the outside noises and the closed door blocks the inside ones. Stiles takes a drink and watches Scott thumb over the opening to his beer bottle.

Then he blurts abruptly, “I should’ve seen this coming, right?”

Stiles looks up, mouth half-open. He can hear the slur in Scott’s words more apparent now.

“I knew something was different with us but I guess I didn’t want to admit it. I should’ve _did_ something, I should’ve--,” his voice breaks off and his covers his face with his hand. He looks back up at Stiles with heavy tears daring to fall. “Stiles, I fucked up.”

“Hey, hey, c’mon,” Stiles says in a soft, soothing voice. He moves to his knees on the bed and places his hand on Scott’s shoulder. “Everything’s gonna be fine. She said she just wants to take a break? A break isn’t forever, dude—“

“—but it can be.”

Stiles shakes his head, “But it won’t be. You’re gonna be fine, Scott. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

Scott takes another gulp of his beer and when he looks back up, he and Stiles are closer than he remembered. Stiles stares at Scott’s mouth and then looks higher until their eyes meet. And Stiles wants to say something – _anything_ —but he can’t speak right now. It’s like someone’s got a death-grip on his throat and his lungs. All he knows is he can’t stop himself from moving in closer and closer to Scott. He breathes in sharply as he feels himself leaning down, and his heart skips exactly two beats. And something in the back of his mind is yelling at him to stop, but something at the front of his heart is telling him to keep going.

He doesn’t break eye contact with Scott until their lips are pressed together and their eyes fall closed. Stiles can taste the beer from Scott’s lips on his tongue, and something about that gives him the motive to keep going. Scott doesn’t push him away or freak out. Instead, he lifts his chin to get a better angle at Stiles’ mouth and kisses him back. Stiles can tell that he’s shocked, though. His eyes are squeezed shut tight like he just bit into a lemon, and his breathing has stilled, but he begins to ease into it. With his hand still on Scott’s shoulder, Stiles can feel how stiff his muscles are and how hesitant he is with the longer the kiss lasts.

Scott pulls back from the kiss just a centimeter and he and Stiles stare at each other. Both look caught off guard with their eyes wide and mouths hung open, but nothing about their demeanor looks displeased – just stunned. Scott opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. 

Taking what feels like the biggest risk of his life, Stiles grabs the bottle from Scott, places it on his nightstand and then swings his leg over Scott’s body. And for a second he just stays there, trying to figure out what Scott’s thinking, but he can’t read him accurately enough. He’s looking up at Stiles with an expression that Stiles couldn’t even describe to this day, but the voice in Stiles’ head said _go, do it_.

So he did.

Stiles wraps his fingers around the back of Scott’s neck and kisses him again; and this time Scott kisses back like he means it. Scott’s lips are soft and firm at the same time, but seemingly inviting all the time. He lets his hand palm the side of Stiles’ face as he kisses him deeper. Stiles slowly lowers himself to where he’s sitting on Scott’s lap, and he begins to push forward just a little.

And they’re kissing. _Fuck_ , they’re kissing for real, kissing like they both need it. (And maybe they both do.)

Stiles’ breath is hot against Scott’s lips when he pulls back momentarily to adjust his angle. Scott’s mouth is warm and accepting of everything Stiles is doing. He lets Stiles’ tongue slide over his upper lip, and his teeth bite down on his lower one. He lets Stiles’ hands slide down his chest onto his stomach. And when Stiles’ long fingers hook around the top of Scott’s belt, he can feel Scott breathe out heavily.

Breaking the kiss, Stiles uses two hands to begin to undo Scott’s belt. But then he stops short and looks up at Scott. They hold their stare for a minute until Scott catches on to what Stiles is waiting for. Still out of breath and overwhelmed he nods a little and breathes, “ _Go ahead_.”

Stiles is embarrassingly eager and kisses at Scott’s mouth hungrily while he unfastens his belt and undoes the button on his jeans. He can hear his heart racing in his ears and it’s drowning out the sound of the thoughts in his head as he unzips Scott’s zipper. On his sides, he can feel Scott’s hands grabbing the back of his shirt tightly as he slides his hands under the denim of Scott’s jeans. He loosely runs his fingers along the curve of Scott’s cock and feels his breathing quicken when he strokes it a few times.

With shaking hands, Stiles pulls Scott’s jeans off his hips. He grabs Scott’s cock firmly though, and feels him breathe in sharply and then out slowly when he begins his rhythm. With his other hand, Stiles lifts Scott’s chin and kisses him again. This time it’s more tender and slow. And it’s then that Stiles realizes how much he wants this. On his lips is Scott, on his tongue he tastes Scott, in his hands he feels Scott, when he listens he hears Scott--

_Just Scott_.

Panting against Stiles’ mouth he whispers, “Fuck…fuck…,” in between elongated breaths.

Scott pushes upward into Stiles’ hand, rocking both of them on the bed. And his breathing gets faster as Stiles jerks him faster, faster, _faster_. With a handful of Scott’s hair, Stiles sucks at his bottom lip and mumbling words into his mouth that Scott can’t process right now. Stiles kisses from his mouth to his cheek to his ear. His tongue is hot and slick against the lobe of his ear and he can hear how quick Stiles is breathing. 

“Take this off, take it off.” Stiles voice is deep and spent as he tugs at the bottom of Scott’s shirt. He pushes under Scott’s arms and pulls the shirt over his head and throws it to the ground haphazardly. He kisses almost wildly on Scott’s neck and chest. He can hear how fast Scott’s heart is beating and how quickly he’s breathing. Then, he reassumes his position on Scott’s lap and grips the base of Scott’s dick.

Scott’s head rolls against the wall and he makes just about the sexiest sounds Stiles has ever heard.

Stiles takes his chin again and kisses him square on and asks against his lips, “You like that? Yeah? Harder?”

He presses their foreheads together, mixing their breath and moaning words that break off and die before they leave their lips. Stiles licks up his neck and back to Scott’s mouth. He kisses him strongly, smearing their lips together and sliding his tongue over Scott’s.

“Faster,” Scott instructs in a whispered moan. 

Stiles pulls faster, jerks harder and it forces a moan out of Scott.

He can feel Scott shaking, panting for air, and squirming. “Fuck, Stiles, just like that, just like that…”

Scott’s voice is dry and lustful, and Stiles is almost stunned at how turned on his he is. The way he’s pushing up into his hand, and chasing his mouth to kiss him back, and moaning louder than both of them know he should. The way he’s rubbing his hand over Stiles’ cock though his sweat pants, grabbing at it every once in a while though the cotton and licking his lips.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” Scott moans against Stiles’ neck. “Fuck, _fuck_.”

Under him, Stiles feels Scott’s body jolt as he throws his upper body into Stiles with a whimper. He bites at Stiles’ collar to keep himself quiet but just his rapid breathing alone seemed like enough to wake the whole block. A moment later, Stiles feels Scott breathing hitch as he comes over both Stiles’ hand and his own stomach. His mouth hangs open widely and he squeezed Stiles’ shirt, moaning, “Fuck, oh my god, oh…god.”

A moment later they both still and it feels like the whole world is too. Stiles removes his hand from Scott’s cock but keeps the one behind is neck firm. He leans in, this time with confidence, and kisses Scott before retracting his leg from over his legs and sitting on the bed next to him. Scott’s breathing is still slightly rushed as he grips the bed sheets to help steady his breathing. He looks over at Stiles and then looked toward his lap, then at the door, then back at Stiles.

Neither knew what to say.

What _could_ they say?

“Um,” Stiles starts after a solid minute of pure silence. He’s not sure where he’s going with this but he feels like he has to say something. “I—“

“—I’m gonna go clean up,” Scott announces in a rushed, almost embarrassed voice. He’s already pulling up his pants as he’s scooting toward the end of the bed.

He pushes himself off the bed quickly, grabs his shirt that was in the middle of the floor, and power walks out of Stiles’ room. Stiles hears the door slam shut and the water instantly turn on.

His chest feels tight and his heart is still racing and he’s not sure if he’s breathing properly. So many things were racing through Stiles’ mind that he wasn’t sure which one to think first. Just a horrible mash of happiness and sadness ran though his veins; accomplishment and regret running through his body; everything and nothing running though his mind.

Before he even has a chance to begin to process what just happened, Scott comes back in with a blank expression on his face. He’s still a little unsteady on his feet and the room still smells like beer-- but now also sweat, sex and tension. So much fucking tension. His eyes catch Stiles but he breaks eye contact quickly. He stumbles over his words for a moment and leaves it at, “I’ll see you Monday,” before heading for the door.

Stiles jumps up. “Scott, wait!” He squeezes his hands into fists to help get the words out. “At least let me take you home, you can’t drive like this.”

“I’ll walk,” Scott answers sharply, and there’s almost a cold undertone to his voice that shoots Stiles in the heart. Scott must’ve caught his tone because he softens his voice and adds, “Thanks, though.”

Scott lets out a sigh before heading out the door leaving Stiles alone with four empty beer bottles, two full ones, a racing heart, and his thoughts.

______________________________

 

If Stiles said he got any sleep that night, he’d be lying. After he washed his hands and face, threw the beer bottles out, and relocked the front door, he was left with nothing else to do but sit and think about what had just happened. He couldn’t get his heart to stop pounding and for his mind to stop racing. Silently, he sat at the side of his bed. His long lingers rubbed across his forehead and made their way to his temples, trying to ease his headache. He thought about how stupid he was to initiate it, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret what happened—just the way it ended. Just the awkwardness.

But when he thought about the look on Scott’s face right before he left and the tone of his voice, he got the worst feeling in his stomach. It was an almost crippling pain that twisted through his intestines and radiated his heart; the type of pain that gave him a headache _and_ heartache. It was a pain that made him feel like he could throw up the more he thought about it. Slowly, he took in deep breaths to get himself to calm down but all he could think about was how much he fucked up.

When he kissed Scott he should’ve known that nothing good could’ve come out of it, and he wanted to slap himself for being so naïve. Things like that only happened in movies; and this was no movie, or fairytale, and it sure as hell didn’t have a happy ending. But somewhere in the far, deep, darkest corner of Stiles’ mind he was still ringing from what happened. It was an anxious, jittery feeling that still had his hands shaking. Like the feeling you get when you run a red light, or sneak out of your house, or – _kiss someone you love_.

He thought about how many years he and Scott knew each other, and how they promised to be friends until the end, and how they’ve seen each other and their best and worst—and how suddenly none of that meant anything. What mattered right now was that he and Scott crossed a line that maybe they were never meant to (no matter how much Stiles wanted to), and _maybe_ there’s no way to take it back.

Maybe Scott, and the friendship as Stiles’ knew it, was gone. Maybe Scott won’t talk to him again, or even look at him again. Stiles didn’t know if he could live without Scott in his life one way or another.

A horrible wave of nausea flew over Stiles and he covered his mouth reflexively. He forced himself to take deep breaths. He lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling until he started to see black dots on his white paint. Then, he closed his eyes, squeezed his jaw tight and dug his fingernails into his mattress.

And Stiles didn’t know if it was because of the pain or the nausea, the anxiousness or the regret, the racing thoughts or the fact that he couldn’t seem to calm down – but he started to cry.

______________________________

 

Stiles had waited by Scott’s locker before school started but he didn’t show up at all. Each minute that went by Stiles felt himself getting more and more nervous. Anxiously, he watched the blur of faces going by, and even though he saw those same faces every day, he didn’t recognize a single one today. The only person he need to see (or didn’t need to see, maybe) was Scott. With wide eyes he looked over girls with blond hair and boys with glasses, trying to find Scott somewhere in the early morning chaos.

He felt the earth moving under his feet and his heart daring to break out of his chest the longer he stood there. In the time he and Scott had spent apart since the incident he hadn’t thought of what he was going to say when they were finally in contact with each other again. And as he stood by Scott’s locker he hated himself more and more for thinking that it would just “flow out of him”, because right now the only thing daring to come out of him was vomit. A lump the size of a house was stuck in Stiles’ throat and he wasn’t even sure if he could speak if he wanted to. Dramatically, he opened his mouth wide in attempt to get enough air into his body, but it felt like he was breathing in fire.

The bell rang for first period to start and there was still no sign of Scott. Stiles didn’t move from his spot, though. Even though more of him dreaded what might happen when he saw Scott, he still felt the need to at least try to fix things. Everything inside his heart wanted to see Scott and hear his voice and maybe when that happened, he’d find the right words to say to work everything out. But what could he say, really? “ _Sorry I jerked you off and it freaked you out, Scott. Won’t happen again. Let’s go to lunch now_.”? Stiles huffed a little at the thought. Sure, that’ll work.

By the time Stiles looked down at his watch again, it was ten minutes after the bell had rang and halls were completely empty besides a few stragglers. If Scott wasn’t here by now, he wasn’t coming at all, Stiles told himself. Either he was late to school or avoiding him altogether. Still, Stiles didn’t know which one he truly preferred. He wanted to talk to Scott, but then again he didn’t. Both of those options seemed pretty shitty at this point.

______________________________

 

The first time Scott and Stiles see each other, it’s in English class, second period.

Scott walks into class about fifteen minutes late with a pass from the mail office. As soon as Stiles notices him walk into the room he sits up straight at his desk and takes in an a little too audible deep breath. The first thing that pops into Stiles’ mind is the only empty seat left in the class is next to him. Isn’t that always the way? He yanks his hand from atop his desk to under it and the paper on Stiles’ desk slides off it, and floats into the aisle beside him. Instantly, Stiles leans over to retrieve it and when he’s back sitting upward, he notices Scott’s stare. Scott’s eyes meet with his and there’s something like fear and disinclination etched in them. Stiles’ mouth falls open a little and he can’t hear anything but his heart beating in his ears.

“Nice of you to join us, Mr. McCall,” Mr. John, their English teacher, says as he continues to write the characteristics of Huckleberry Finn on the board. His back is to the class as he writes and he doesn’t stop when Scott walks in. A few long seconds go by and Stiles is looking from Scott to Mr. John and then back at him. Scott blinks twice before ripping his stare from Stiles to his teacher when he realized that he was addressing him.

“Huh?” he asks, balling his hand into a fist nervously at his side.

He drops the chalk. “I _said_ , nice of you to join us, Mr. McCall,” Mr. John repeats with a hint of attitude in his voice this time. “But maybe I take that back now.” He cuts his eye at Scott, accepts his pass, and gestures for him to take a seat. Scott readjusts his backpack on his shoulder as he scans the room for an empty seat. He sees one next to Stiles and feels his heart skip exactly three beats. He does all he can not to show his hesitation as he approaches the desk.

And when he sits down next to Stiles it feels like there are a million eyes and ears on them; like everyone in not only the whole class but the _whole school_ knew that happened between them. Scott removes off his back pack, takes out a notebook, and begins to copy the work that’s on the board without a word. Stiles does all he can not to keep looking after at Scott, but he’s failing at it miserably. He can feel his mouth going dry and the voice in his head is screaming, “Say something to him!”

So he does.

“H-hey?” Stiles whispers, but it comes out like a question. Scott stops writing and looks over in Stiles’ direction.

“Hey, Stiles,” he answers back softly, and then continues writing the notes again.

A full minute goes by of Scott using all his power to focus on writing and _not_ Stiles, and Stiles using all his power not to blurt out everything that’s coming to his mind – which, to his surprise, isn’t blank at all. He has so many things he wants to ask Scott; like how he feels now that he’s had time to think everything through, and if they’re still best friends—or friends at all. Like if they can ever hang out again, or if it was something they can pretend like it never happened? He wants to know if Scott stayed up all night like he did—and if it’s hard for him to concentrate on anything else, too. He wants to ask if Scott’s been replaying parts of the night over and over in his head like he has. He wants to ask if he remembers the way his lips taste, and if he closes his eyes, can he still taste them? He wants to ask if Scott has that pit in the bottom of his stomach like he does, and if he has just as many questions.

Stiles sits up straight again, gripping the edge of his desk. He starts, “Scott—“

“Alright we’re going to be taking a pop quiz,” Mr. John announces, breaking Stiles’ voice in half. “Everyone put your notebooks either under your desk or in your back pack.”

Scott is still looking over at Stiles with raised eyebrows as Mr. John walks between them with the pile of quizzes in his hand.

“Quiz means silence, boys,” he says warningly.

He walks back toward the front of the room slowly. “Or you can talk, sure, go ahead. But for each word I hear come out of your mouth, it’s minus five points off your quiz.”

Stiles sits back in his chair with an annoyed sigh. He presses his lips into a straight line in frustration as he drops his notebook on the ground loudly.

Mr. John licks his index finger to retrieve the first paper, and places it on the student’s desk in from of him.

“Your quiz starts now. Good luck.”

______________________________

 

Stiles waits eleven minutes in the boys locker room for Scott. The rest of the team had already gone out to the field for practice, but Stiles told coach that he’d be ‘just a minute’ and that he had to run a late assignment to his chemistry teacher. When the locker room was completely empty, Stiles’ thoughts echoed off the tiled walls and the thin metal of the lockers. His regrets circulated the room like air conditioning and his fears bounded around his head like a swarm of bees.

He took a seat on the bench in front of Scott’s locker and tapped his foot in a non-rhythmic beat. This time he thought about what he’d say to Scott. He thought about how he’d approach asking the pressing question of their friendship, and where they stood now. He thought about how he’d ask Scott about his feeling toward him, and maybe, _maybe_ it’s been on his mind half as much as it’s been on Stiles’.

By the thirteen minute mark, Scott comes walking in with his gym bag over one shoulder and his backpack over the other. The first thing he sees is Stiles and he stops dead in his tracks before asking, “What’re you doing?”

Stiles swallows hard and shrugs his shoulders a little. “Waiting for you,” he answers simply, and he doesn’t like how soft his voice is or how nervous he sounds.

Scott doesn’t answer. Instead, he walks further into the locker room, allowing the heavy door to close behind him. He drops his bags down on the floor in front of Stiles’ feet. He reaches for the combination knob on the locker and Stiles can see his hands shaking. From the corner of his eye, Scott shoots a glance over at Stiles, and then quickly returns his sight back to his combination. He arrives at the first number after spinning it three times too many and missing the number altogether four times. Scott spins the knob in the opposite direction until he gets to the next number. He swallows hard.

“Scott--”

Stiles’ voice sounds amplified in the vacant room, like he was speaking into a megaphone or screaming at the top of his lungs. Scott’s hand halts on the dial, but he keeps his stare downward. He’s listening.

Taking in a deep breath of confidence, Stiles asks softly, “Are we ever gonna talk about it?”

Nervously, Stiles bites the inside of his lower lip and forces himself to look in Scott’s direction. Scott has his eyes closed, with his hand still on the locker. Stiles watches him take in a breath slowly, and then let it out even slower.

“What do you want to talk about,” Scott asks sluggishly. He peels his eyes open as slowly as a newborn, but can’t find it in him to look at Stiles just yet. Stiles can feel how nervous he is, but none of the vibes he was getting were hostile. Not like the night before. Scott’s hand drops from the locker and he turns his body to face Stiles. “Because I don’t really know where to start.”

Stiles almost smiles. “Me either…,” he plays with his fingers. “I don’t know if I should apologize or not.”

Scott’s eyes roam the room aimlessly. He can’t look him in the eye, Stiles notices. He opens his mouth to say something but falls short.

“Don’t. You--,” he begins. Then he stops, swallows, and starts over. Slightly, he shakes his head a little and his eyes shoot toward the floor. “Just forget it, Stiles.”

And Stiles almost lets it end at that. He almost accepts Scott telling him to let it go. _Almost_.

He swallows past the lump in his throat and says, “Maybe I don’t want to forget it.”

They both feel the air freeze and they catch each other’s gaze.

“Stiles…,” Scott groans, as he begins to walk away. And honestly he doesn’t know why he’s walking away or where he planned on going, but he his legs are moving and he can’t stop himself now. It’s not too long after that he feels a hand on his shoulder stopping him, taking a handful of his shirt, and spinning around. He stumbles back a few steps but the wall holds him upright. Scott feels the coolness from the damp tiles on his back. He breathes in and holds his breath.

Stiles’ eyes have hardened and he almost looks angry.

“Tell me it meant nothing to you then.” His voice sounds commanding and desperate at the same time and Scott has to look away.

Scott’s body is as still as a sculpture, and there’s an ache pulsating in his chest that would be relieved if he took a breath. His mouth falls open but nothing comes out; not even the slightest sound.

Stiles has plenty to say though.

“Tell me it meant nothing to you and I’ll drop it, I swear.” Still, Stiles has a handful of Scott’s shirt and Scott’s back is pressed against the wall. Stiles takes a step closer. He looks deep into Scott’s eyes and it feels like he’s reading Scott’s mind, or looking into his soul. “Tell me…,” he has to force himself to say it. “Tell me it didn’t mean anything to you. Tell me you didn’t kiss me back. Say it was all in my head. Say—“

“Stiles—“

“Say you didn’t want it as much as I did, say it was a mistake, say—“

“I can’t, Stiles!” Scott blurts and it makes both of them halt.

Stiles’ hands tighten on Scott’s shoulder but his eyes soften. He waits for Scott to gather his words.

“I can’t say that because I don’t wanna lie to you. I can’t lie to you.”

Scott feels Stiles’ hand begin to loosen on shoulder. He lets his fingers slide off Scott and his arm swings lifelessly at his side. He stares down toward the floor in the little space that’s still between them. Scott watches his face change emotions twice, and when he looks back up he looks vulnerable. With his eyes wide, eyebrows bent upward and mouth slightly open he waits for Scott to continue; like what’s happening is literally life or death. (And it was just as serious.)

“So tell me the truth,” Stiles states in a slow, barely audible voice.

But at that point, Scott wasn’t even sure what the truth was. Because he knew he loved Allison… and he loved Stiles – but he didn’t know if they were the same type of love. Can you love your girlfriend (ex-girlfriend) as much as you love your best friend, or vice versa? Can those two types of loves even be compared? Because at this point, with him and Stiles, it feels like they’ve passed love. They’re beyond it and it scares the hell out of Scott because he didn’t see it coming. He’d always heard the saying ‘struck by love’, and he thinks now he’s starting to understand what it means.

“Stiles, I—,” he didn’t know what to say or how to start. “I—“

Stiles just waited. His expression didn’t change.

“I stayed up all night thinking about what happened between us and-- even _now_ I can’t get it out of my head. I don’t know what it means and that scares me, Stiles. It scares the hell out of me because I never felt this way before, and I didn’t _know_ I felt this way until that night. And then I freaked out because I thought I was feeling something I shouldn’t-- but I don’t know what I’m feeling! I don’t know what it is! So--”

Scott looks away for a second. He reaches out and grabs the bottom of Stiles’ shirt. “All I know is: I don’t wanna lose you. Not as a best friend, or a friend, or—,” he stops because he doesn’t know how to finish it.

Stiles shakes his head, moving in. “You’re not gonna lose me.”

And this time it was Scott who closed the gap between their lips and pulled Stiles in. _He_ was the one who was holding on the hem of Stiles’ shirt and twisting his fingers inward to bring them closer. _He_ was the one with a million and one things racing though his mind because this time it was _him_ making the first move. And it feels like everything they can’t really say and explain right now is coming out. Every word that was gone unsaid, every touch that never was, and every thought that was pushed aside felt like it was coming to the surface.

Scott squeezes his eyes shut tight while his other hand wrapped around Stiles’ side. With his back still pressed against the wall he pushes his hips out and into Stiles in a rowing motion. Stiles breathes out into his mouth, “ _Fuck_.”

Stiles’ hands find their way under Scott’s shirt, gliding them along smooth skin and hard muscle. He can feel Scott breathing in heavily, and his hands rise and fall on his stomach with each breath Scott takes in. His fingers press firmly into Scott’s skin, tracing his abs and sweeping over his nipples, and then pulling him closer.

They kiss at each other’s mouth eagerly, and this time it feels like a relief because neither of them is holding anything back. Stiles pulls away from Scott’s mouth and kisses at his neck, slamming his body into Scott’s, leaving no space between them. He can feel Scott’s cock sliding against his, and it forces a moan out of both of them. On his lips he feels Scott’s upbeat pulse as he kisses across his neck and feels every word that gets stuck in his throat. He licks over Scott’s collarbone and yanks at the top of Scott’s boxers teasingly. Gently, he bites down on Scott’s bone, leaving a wet trail and light teeth marks on his neck and back up to his mouth.

“Oh my– fuck, Stiles,” Scott moans breathlessly. He palms Stiles’ cock though his thin practice shorts. When he touches him, Stiles stomach tightens and he forces out a sharp breath against Scott’s mouth. They kiss again roughly, smearing their lips across one another.

Taking Stiles by the hips, he spins them so that now it’s Stiles’ back against the wall. The force behind it turns Stiles on more than he thought it would and he can’t hide the thin smirk that crawls across his face. His eyes are screaming _keep going_ , and Scott plans on it.

Scott steps back a little to give himself room. His heart is racing, and he’s thinking too much to really think anything. He jerks Stiles’ cock though the fabric and watches him try to catch his breath. He bucks upward into Scott’s hand, taking in air hurriedly. Scott looks Stiles in the eye as he pulls down his shorts and watches Stiles’ eyes expand a little.

“Here?” Stiles asks, softly.

“Here.”

They both know they’re taking a huge risk of getting caught, but neither of them can stop right now.

Scott lowers himself to his knees and Stiles can see he’s nervous even though he’s trying hard not to show it.

Lifting Stiles’ shirt with one hand, he kisses down his stomach. With his tongue flat, he licks over his rib cage and belly button. Scott draws a line with his tongue down the center of his abs and over his happy trail all the way to the very top of his boxers. Scott feels every unsteady gasp of breath that enters Stiles’ lungs. Teasingly, he pulls down Stiles boxers and watches Stiles try not to burst with anticipation. He kisses the top of his thighs and up to his hipbones. Stiles moans weakly, mumbling something like, “Come on.”

Scott wastes no time gripping the base of Stiles’ dick and lifting it into his mouth. His tongue circles the head of his cock, feeling it twitch in his hand.

“Fuck, Scott—“

Scott’s lips are soft and wet and his tongue is warm, and you’d never guess he’s ever done this before. But he’s seen countless porn videos and watched Allison do it a million times and figures if he just does what he remembers, it’ll be less than horrible for Stiles. He kisses the inside of Stiles’ thighs, stroking his dick smoothly. Then, right when Stiles is just about to tell him to stop teasing him, he replaces his mouth around Stiles’ dick.

Stiles head falls forward and he watches with his eyes half-open as Scott bobs his head back and forth. He feels every slide of Scott’s tongue radiate though his body, like lightning. With his toes curled and one hand balled into a fist at his side he takes a handful of Scott’s hair and steers him lower.

"Oh my god," is the only thing that Stiles can say at this point. He pushes into Scott’s mouth— his hair drumming on Stiles’ stomach each time he leans forward in attempt to take Stiles deeper and deeper. Stiles’ fingers slide through Scott’s hair and take a better grip. He steers Scott’s head lower; captivating wetness and heat surrounding his cock, and he moans much louder than he should—like there wasn’t a chance anyone could hear. He bucks his hips upward, making Scott take more of him, until Scott’s hands pushes at his hip. Stiles is bigger than Scott thought and he feels like he might choke. He laughs a little.

He pulls back, breathing in heavily and looking up at Stiles.

“Am I doing okay so far?” he asks, running the back of his hand across his lips with one hand and continuing to jerk Stiles off with the other.

A weak smile forms on Stiles face. He whispers back, “Yeah,” as he nudges Scott’s head forward as initiative for him to get back to it.

Scott was becoming more comfortable and Stiles can tell by the way he picks up speed. He licks rings around Stiles’ cock, kissing up the length of it, and feels the veins working hard to get more and more blood into it. Stiles is shaking now, gripping tighter to Scott’s hair, helping him keep rhythm.

“Don’t stop, fuck – don’t--” Stiles moans and thrusts his hips forward into the wetness of Scott’s mouth.

Scott breathes in through his nose and then pushes forward until he’s taken all of Stiles. It wrings a moan out of him and he feel Stiles shake. His hand slides fluidly though Scott’s hair in satisfaction. 

Then Scott goes faster, harder, and Stiles feels like he’s going to implode. Stiles is nothing but broken words and airless breaths now, with Scott’s name on his lips. He squeezes his hand into a fist in Scott’s hair and bucks forward again, getting more friction. And it feels like there’s shock waves of pleasure running through his body with each stroke into Scott’s mouth. His eyes are sealed shut and his mouth is pried open and his mind is blank. And all he can say is, “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god…”

Stiles’ mouth is dry from how quick he’s sucking in air, and it sounds like he might hyperventilate. Scott keeps a steady upbeat pace though. With his tongue sliding along the bottom of Stiles’ cock, and the accompaniment of Scott sucking and jerking him, it feels like it’s gonna come any second now.

“Please don’t stop, Scott – fuck, oh, my god, yes—“

And when Scott takes the full length of him again, and Stiles is sure what he’s feeling on the tip of his cock is the back of Scott’s throat, he can’t hold back anymore.

“Fuck I’m gonna—“

Scott pulls back a little, sliding his tongue wetly along Stiles’ cock until he gets to the head. Then he licks at it in long drags of his tongue while stroking him quickly And he doesn’t move his mouth when Stiles comes. Instead, he drops his jaw a little and places small stokes of his tongue on the underside of Stiles’ dick, feeling him jolt and his muscles stiffen.

Stiles bends forward, holding the top of Scott’s head for balance and breathes out heavily into his hair. “Oh my god,” he mumbles, trying to peel his eyes open and straighten his spine again.

Scott wipes his mouth again, and he can’t help but smile up at Stiles. He laughs a little, like a relieved laugh. 

“How was that?” he asks him, beginning to stand up again.

Huffing, Stiles replies, “Fucking amazing.”

He was still shaking his head and trying to regain himself.

After a minute, Stiles has enough control of his body to bend over and pull up his shorts and boxers. He lets out a laugh and says, “ _Dude_.”

Stiles takes the side of his face and kisses him again. And then again. And then one more time until Scott pulls back with a small smirk on his face.

“We should probably get to practice, huh?”

Stiles looks at his watch, then toward the window and then back at Scott. “I guess.”

They both laugh at that.

______________________________

After practice, Stiles drives Scott home and they spend the fifteen minute drive in silence trying to think of what they’re gonna say, and an hour trying to get the words out once they’re in Scott’s driveway.

“So,” Stiles says. He rests his hands on top of his steering wheel. “We’re still best friends, right? That hasn’t changed?”

Scott looks over at him with his eyes slightly expanded. A smile breaks across his lips. “God, Stiles, of course not.”

And as relived as Stiles is to hear that, he moves on to the next question on his mind. He taps his index finger on the wheel and presses on the brake even though the car is in park. “What about, um,” he stops.

“Allison,” Scott says.

Stiles only nods.

Scott drops his chin and looks out his passenger seat window trying to think of how he’s going to approach this question. The sun is getting harder to see behind the trees, and a deep orange glow illuminates from down the road and over the tops of houses. He’s quiet for a moment and Stiles watches him begin to shrug his shoulders a few times. He shakes his head, and then shrugs for real this time before looking back over at Stiles.

“Allison and I broke up,” he answers in the best way he knows how. Stiles can see in his eyes that he’s unsure about his answer.

And no, it didn’t really leave them in a better place than when they started or clear up anything. And no, it didn’t even begin to break any of the barriers that were still keeping them both from feeling completely free to talk about how they felt honestly with each other. But yes, it did let Stiles in on a few things: one, Scott thought about him as more than a friend; at this point it was obvious. And two, Scott still has feelings for Allison. Of course he does. Stiles would be completely out of his mind if he expected any different just because they’re ‘on a break’.

Stiles hears Scott swallow and clear his throat.

“How do you… feel about me?” Scott asks, and his voice is low and shy like he can’t believe he’s asking at all.

That’s the million dollar question. Stiles almost smiles.

“I wish I could explain it,” he states, moving his hands to the bottom of the steering wheel. His finger rubs under his nose as he starts one hundred sentences in his head but can’t get his mouth to form a single word.

“I--,” he starts. Then, “When—“

Scott is patient though. He knows for a fact he couldn’t put into words the proper way to explain how he feels about Stiles either.

“Do you remember when we were six and playing in my back yard? The first time I ever saw you have an asthma attack?”

Scott nods.

“I don’t think I was ever more scared in my entire life than watching you trying so hard to breathe but not being able to,” Stiles shakes his head. “I can still remember how panicked I was and if I think about it, my heart starts to beat just as fast as it did that day. I remember running with you, chasing that white butterfly, and how you just stopped. And at first I didn’t think anything of it until I turned around and you were hunched over and pulling at the collar of your shirt like it was choking you, and—,“ he stops for a second. “Scott, I was so fucking _scared_. I didn’t know what to do and I kept asking you if you were okay and what I should do to help you but you couldn’t talk. I remember how red your face was getting and how hard you were coughing and all I wanted to do was _give_ you my air and my lungs and breathe _for_ you. I didn’t want my air if you couldn’t have it too.”

Stiles stares right into Scott’s eyes, watching them soften. His mouth stays closed though as Stiles continues.

“And I’m so glad my dad saw us out the window and came to help you because I knew for a fact I wasn’t gonna leave your side. I remember the way he didn’t waste any time picking you up and running you into the house. And I remember running as fast as I could to keep up with him and stay near you. I remember watching him get the inhaler your mom gave him and giving it to you and telling you over and over to just relax and it’ll go away. And I remember how dumb I felt because _I_ didn’t think of that. All I wanted to do was help you and I couldn’t think of the one thing that would.”

Scott shakes his head and says, “Stiles we were kids, you didn’t know.”

“Yeah, I guess,” he replies softly. Then, he begins again.

“What I’m trying to get at, Scott, is that I’ve always put you first. Always. You’ve always meant more to me than I could ever try to explain and right now isn’t any different. That feeling has never gone away. If anything it’s amplified and grown as we’ve gotten older. I’ve loved you since before the kiss when we were kids and before the other night and before what happened today. Way before that.”

Scott’s quiet for what feels like forever before he manages out, “Oh. See, I’ve--”

Stiles rolls his eyes a little with a smirk. “Look, Scott we don’t have to talk about all of this tonight. We can do it tomorrow. Or the day after that. Or this weekend. It’ll give both of us a chance to think about things more. And when you’re ready to explain it to me, I’ll be ready to listen.”

He watches Scott press his lips together. “Okay,” he answers back toward the windshield instead of Stiles. He looks down at his hands and then up at Stiles. “You sure? I mean, you can come in and we can—“

“Scott, it’s fine. We’ll talk about it on Saturday.”

Then there’s a comforting smile that works its way across Stiles’ face. Scott smiles back.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Scott says, reaching in the back seat go get his backpack.

But before he extends his hand for the door handle he takes hold of Stiles’ face instead. He presses his lips to Stiles’ softly, and only for a second, before pulling back and saying, “Goodnight,” against his lips.

“Goodnight,” Stiles replies, gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turn white.

Scott hops out the car and makes his way toward his front door. He unlocks it, and looks back at Stiles one more time before closing it.

Stiles can still feel the tingle on his lips when he backs out of Scott’s driveway to head home.

______________________________

 

As the week went on, Scott and Stiles found themselves opening up more and finding the right ways to begin to explain the way they felt. They were really opening up sexually and affectionately. They’d put in the extra effort to sneak kisses in school in the hallway during classes and in Stiles’ car when he picked Scott up in the morning. Their ‘good morning’ and ‘good night’ kisses were getting harder and harder to break as the week went on. By Friday, they were experts on timing. They knew exactly what time and during what classes to excuse themselves to meet in a stairwell or the bathroom. They were partners again during class assignments, did homework together again, and in some weird way things were feeling better than their previous definition of ‘normal’ with them. There wasn’t tension or hesitation or anything like that. If Stiles wanted to put his arm around Scott in the hallway, he did. If Scott wanted to rest his head on Stiles shoulder, he did. And if Stiles wanted to run his fingers though Scott’s hair while they watched South Park, he did.

 

Scott arrives at Stiles’ house at seven at night on Saturday. And by eight o’clock they’re laying side by side on Stiles’ bed, eating Skittles and popcorn.

Stiles rolls his head on the pillow in Scott’s direction and stares at his mouth until he looks over at him. The bed they’re lying on is nowhere near as soft as Scott’s lips when Stiles kisses them. Scott’s eyes fall closed as Stiles’ hand rests on his chest—right over his heart. Stiles asks against his lips, “You still feel like talking about it?”

Lifting his head up, Scott kisses the side of Stiles’ mouth and says honestly, “Not really.”

Stiles smiles against Scott’s mouth. He whispers, “Me either,” as he throws a leg over Scott and kisses him again.

Instantly, Scott’s hands find their way up Stiles’ shirt. He runs his fingers over his spine and rests them on his hips. Stiles smells like candy and tastes even sweeter. Scott breathes out against Stiles’ lips and gripping his fingers around his thighs. Stiles’ long fingers have found their way into Scott’s hair, swimming through the strands like a professionally trained diver. He feels like he’s on a boat with the way Scott is pushing up into him, rocking the bed and forcing Stiles to slide against him.

Locking his knees, Stiles sits back on top of Scott, grinding his hips downward and watching Scott’s eyes trying to stay open. He bites his lip at Scott and moans something that sounds like, “Fuck, don’t stop.”

Leaning down again, Stiles says between kisses, “I was thinking…. that maybe…. _tonight_.”

And even with his eyes closed, Stiles can see Scott’s eyes reopen. They kiss again, but this time it’s followed by Scott squeezing his side, telling him to stop.

“Are you sure? Are you ready for that?”

Stiles shrugs, “If my first time was gonna be with anyone…”

Scott’s kissing him before he can finish. Then he says softly, disappointment in his eyes, “Stiles, I don’t have any—“

“I got it,” Stiles interjects. He kisses Scott again, licking at his bottom lip and biting it just slightly. “I got it all.”

Stiles laughs softly and he adds, “It was the most awkward trip to the drug store in my entire life… but I got it.”

A wild smile runs across Scott’s face before he bucks, twists, and puts Stiles on his back. A second later their lips are pressing against each other and their tongues are rolling and Stiles is moaning. He pulls Scott’s shirt over his head and tosses it behind him. It hits the window blinds with a loud shutter but they don’t stop to see is anything’s broken. Stiles’ hands work quickly at Scott’s belt, undoing it with ease and leaving it open. He lifts his hands above his head while Scott takes off his shirt and leaves it at the top of the bed.

“What time does your dad come home tonight?” Scott asks. He pressed open mouth kisses against Stiles’ bare chest. He licks circles over his nipples and feels Stiles’ back arch and a small moan escape his lips.

He shakes his head. “Not till late. He’s doing paperwork,” they kiss again before Stiles says, “Told me not to call unless there’s an emergency.”

Letting out a small chuckle, Scott kisses his way down Stiles’ body. His mouth runs over his abs and his hip bones, biting every once in a while and feeling Stiles’ change in breath whenever he does. With is tongue flat, he licks just above where Stiles’ boxers are and listens to Stiles’ sounds come more and more frequently.

Scott unbuttons Stiles’ jeans and pulls them all the way down before tossing them across the room.

“I guess you don’t need those.”

“I guess not.”

Scott’s hand snakes up Stiles leg. He takes hold of Stiles cock, rubbing it though the fabric. Stiles’ toes curl and he sucks in air quickly. “ _God_.”

Softly, Scott kisses his way up to Stiles inner thighs. With steady hands he removes Stiles boxers and slides his tongue across the very, _very_ bottom of Stiles’ midsection and up to his hip bones, and then all the way back down again. Propping himself up on his elbows, Stiles watches Scott kiss, lick and bite everywhere but where he wants him too. Anticipation and eagerness was beginning to boil over for Stiles, as he felt his cock hardening by the second without as much as a touch from Scott yet.

“Fuck, Scott, stop teasing me,” Stiles’ voice is slow and low and weighed down.

He bites the inside of his lip as Scott looks up at him with a mischievous smile on his face. Scott sticks his tongue out and hovers over the head of Stiles’ cock. He swings his tongue back and forth and in circles just centimeters from Stiles’ dick and he could almost _feel_ his tongue against his skin. Scott watches Stiles squirm under him as he continues to tease him, placing phantom licks up and down Stiles’ dick. He tries to lift his hips up, but Scott presses down on his stomach and keeps him still.

“ _Scott_.”

“Be patient”

And that’s when Scott finally presses his lips to Stiles’ dick. His tongue is warm and damn near magical as it slides up the length of Stiles’ cock. And when Scott takes him into his mouth, Stiles head drops backwards and he whispers, “Fuck that feels so good.”

Scott’s mouth is as warm as always, wet and inviting. Stiles lifts his hips, helping Scott fall into a slow, sensual rhythm. He can feel Scott swinging his tongue back and forth each time he slides his mouth back down on Stiles’ dick. Stiles’ stomach rises and falls quickly, despite how slow Scott was going, moaning for him to go faster but Scott was stubborn tonight.

With his right hand, Stiles reaches above his head and into his nightstand beside him. He pushes a pile of clothes out of the way and grabs a small bottle of lube and a condom. He leaves the condom on top of the nightstand but rolls the lube down the bed in Scott’s direction.

Taking it, Scott pulls off Stiles’ cock just as slow as he went down, causing Stiles to shake and his stomach to drop. Scott smirks up at him and he can see he’s got Stiles on edge. Scott stands up, stripping himself of his jeans and boxers before climbing back on Stiles’ bed and pushing his legs apart. Scott opens the cap to the lube and squeezes out a fair amount onto his index finger. He looks up at Stiles again before pressing his finger against Stiles.

He watches him jump a little and he can’t help but smile a little.

“Just relax,” Scott says to him quietly as he drops the bottle by his side, holds Stiles’ stomach with one hand, and slowly pushes his finger inside.

“Fuck…. _fuck_ ,” Stiles breathes out into the pillow.

Scott takes his time fingering Stiles. He pushes in and pulls out slowly, watching Stiles react to everything he does. His breathing is upbeat and he keeps trying to jerk himself off but Scott slaps his hands away. And they keep that up until Stiles moans, “Okay, okay,” and Scott thinks maybe he wants him to stop but he adds, “I’m ready for another.”

Retrieving the bottle again, Scott places a drop or two of lube on his middle finger and pushes both in as evenly as he could. Stiles’ is tight and his back arches and he presses his head into the mattress, moaning out a slow, slow, “Fuuuck.”

Three minutes later and Stiles is biting the pillow, rambling nonsense into the material and moaning. And Stiles’ dick is hard and it looks like maybe he can come from just Scott fingering him and Scott’s almost tempted to try. Almost.

Scott leans over Stiles, kissing his neck and fingering him in a pace that was perfect for Stiles. He kisses his mouth and asks, “You doing okay so far?”

Stiles breathes in. Winded and mouth open he answers, “I’ll be better when you fuck me.”

With his mouth now kissing up the curve of Stiles’ ear, Scott questions, “Are you ready for that?”

He could scream, Stiles could. He takes the condom off the nightstand and hands it to Scott.

“Yes, yes, a million times yes.”

Moving as quickly as he could, Scott removes his fingers from inside Stiles and he huffs at the sudden emptiness he feels. Scott opens the condom wrapping and rolls it on himself. When he’s settled, he moves between Stiles’ legs and lines himself up, brushing the top of his cock with Stiles’ hole. He sees Stiles trying to stay still.

Scott takes hold of Stiles’ hips and enters him slower than slow and watches Stiles’ face scrunch up anyway. He breathes in sharply and holds his breath while gripping the bed sheet. “Oh my god,” Stiles groans through clenched teeth. He squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his face into the pillow. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

And Scott stops and he leans down; with one hand on Stiles’ stomach and the other by his ear he asks him gently, “Am I hurting you? Stiles, we can stop.”

Almost instantly Stiles shakes his head and whispers back, “Keep going.”

But still Scott doesn’t move. He watches Stiles face, still with his eyebrows furrowed together and his mouth pressed flat into a straight line and his cheeks blushed. Scott doesn’t move until Stiles grabs him by the hip and pulls him inward, whispering almost impatiently, “Scott, go.”

So he does.

Scott rolls his hips inward a little more until he was about halfway in. He keeps an eye on Stiles though; keeps track of how fast he’s breathing and the way his face changes. Then, he slides all the way in and it forces a loud moan out of Stiles and he yells Scott’s name like it’s a curse.

It takes them a little time to warm up, but a few minutes later and they’re both huffing. Scott pushes into Stiles moderately quickly, trying to ease Stiles though the initial pain, but it seems like he’s far gone because he’s pulling at Scott’s side saying, “Faster, faster.”

With sweaty hands, Scott grips Stiles’ sides and goes faster. The headboard knocks against the wall and echoes off the walls of the room. Scott grinds his body downward into Stiles in a wave-like fashion and he watches Stiles’ back slide up the bed a little with each stroke.

Stiles’ mouth is wide open and he’s gasping like he’s been under water for thirty seconds. He’s pushing back into Scott, wanting it more and more and more.

“God, Stiles,” Scott moans against his chest, kissing it. Stiles can feel Scott’s abs sliding against his, trying to go deeper and deeper. Stiles breathes in when Scott breathes out and it’s like they’re forming into one person – one wave.

“Fuck, Scott, just like that – just like--- fuck, fuck—“

Hot friction surrounds Scott’s cock and he feels like he’s about to come any second now. His stomach muscles tighten and he’s kissing at Stiles’ neck absently, licking and kissing over bite marks he left a moment ago.

Scott’s legs are shaking as fast as Stiles is breathing and they both feel like they’re going to explode.

“Shit, Stiles I’m gonna – fuck I’m gonna come—“ And Scott’s breaths come in short gasps as he digs his nails into the comforter on Stiles’ bed so hard it might rip. He yells so loud it makes Stiles feel blessed that no one’s home to hear and he can feel Scott’s body jolting as he comes.

Stiles’ hand takes hold of his cock and jerks himself fast while Scott kisses his neck and shoulders mumbling against his skin, “Come for me, come for me…”

And when Stiles comes his whole body lifts. He comes over his hand and both his and Scott’s stomach, biting the pillow and shaking. He stays with his back arched for a few seconds before collapsing back onto the bed limply. His hand is still shaking, though, when he lets go of his cock and lets it rest on his stomach.

 When he calms Scott kisses him on the lips and asks, “How was that?”

Stiles smirks weakly. “Amazing.”

Scott pulls out of Stiles, removing the condom, tying it, and tossing it in the garbage next to Stiles’ bed. He lies back down on top of Stiles, kissing his cheek and then his forehead.

“Am I supposed to feel this tired?” Stiles asks in a low voice and with closed eyes.

Scott grins at him. “If I did it right, then yeah.”

Stiles nods a little. “Then you did it perfectly.”

Again, Scott smiles. He rolls off him and onto the bed beside him instead.

“Get some sleep,” Scott tells him, grabbing the covers and pulling them over both of them.

Stiles rolls over onto his side. “G’night,” he slurs.

And this time when Stiles wants to throw his arm around Scott, he does.

______________________________

 

Stiles knows things between them aren’t perfect. God, no, they’re not. If anything, they’re a little worse than when they started considering all the things they still have to work out. Allison is still in Scott’s heart, and maybe she always will be. There are still unanswered questions, and feelings to sort out, and decisions to be made. And no, he didn’t know what any of this was going to mean for them tomorrow when they wake up or the days after that, but he knew that he and Scott would figure it out like they always have: _together_. 


End file.
